


New York State of Mind

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Awkward Hugs, F/M, mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Clint might have pissed her off doesn't mean Natasha won't call if she needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York State of Mind

Clint was woken up by a slap in the face. He was upright in an instant, one hand beneath his pillow, where a large, serrated knife lay concealed. But it was only Natasha tossing in her sleep. He considered waking her up, but she was proud and she would be embarrassed. Besides, she barely slept as it was, if he woke her up every time she had a bad dream she’d never sleep at all.

So Clint slipped out of bed lightly and padded across the apartment in his bare feet. It wasn’t quite six in the morning but already the whole place was flooded with sunlight, that white, early morning light that soothed the soul. He had seen a lot of this light lately. It was the best time of day, before the phone started ringing, before the rest of the city had really gotten out of bed yet, not that New York City ever really went to sleep, but it was certainly quieter. Clint glanced around at the remnants of the night before; Natasha’s empty wine glass, and the three bottles of ‘Arrogant Bastard Ale’ that she had brought for him. Clint couldn’t help but smile when he looked at those. He was definitely keeping one of them for the collection.

Clint got halfway through tidying up before he got bored. Which, in fairness, was what happened pretty much every time he tried to clean. He drifted over to the piano, stroking his fingers over the paint-speckled lid. Before he even realised what he was doing he had settled himself in front of it, stretching his hands across the keyboard.

It was still strange to own his own piano. It was strange to own much of anything, really. As a child, in and out of foster homes then travelling with the circus, he had had one bag that he could carry on his back and that was it. Then, in later years, he had moved around so much there was little point in acquiring possessions because the chances were he’d have to burn them in a couple of months anyway. This was the first time in his life he’d ever had a house to call his own, a home. Clint glanced over at Natasha, still asleep. A home. With people he loved, people who cared about him. He wondered if there would ever come a day when he wasn’t afraid to go to sleep, in case he woke up to discover that this had all been some vivid dream.

He touched his fingers to the keyboard and Clint was playing before he had even consciously chosen a song. It was his favourite song, the first song he had ever learned on an old piano in a dingy basement bar in Paris, taught to him by an old man who had lost his eyes to a pimp named Delacroix. This old man, who had never told Clint his name, had taught him to play ‘New York State of Mind’ and showed him a world of music that Clint had never imagined before. Every time he played it, he was playing a eulogy for his lost friend.

“Well, that’s one way to get woken up in the morning.”

Natasha’s voice startled him and Clint’s fingers stumbled on the keyboard. “I didn’t mean to.”

She wasn’t exactly smiling but there was a softness around her eyes that would have been a smile if she had been anyone else. She was sitting up in bed, her t-shirt slipping off one shoulder, her slender arms wrapped around her knees. The sunlight streaming through the thin curtains struck her hair and made it glow. Even after all this time Clint was still blown away by her.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Natasha assured him.

Clint let his hands fall still on the keyboard and he struggled to look her in the eye.

“What?”

“You were dreaming again.”

Natasha’s face closed up and she swung herself out of bed.

“Tash-,”

“I don’t see how my dreams are any of your concern.”

“Forget it; your head is your own business.”

“I have to go.” Natasha was already dressed and gathering up her bag. She wasn’t flustered or even overtly hurried, she was just devastatingly efficient.

“If you stay I’ll make you breakfast.”

“I’m not really in the mood for Pop Tarts.”

She was gone, out the door before Clint could even get to his feet. He knew there was nothing he could have said to make her stay, but he wondered nonetheless.

As though it had been aroused by the mention of food Clint’s stomach emitted and audible groan and he made his way over to stick two Pop Tarts in the toaster, still lost in thought. As he turned to survey his suddenly empty apartment his elbow jostled something. A bottle of ‘Arrogant Bastard Ale’.

“You picked a good one, Tash,” he muttered.

-+-

A couple of hours later he arrived at the office. It was a nondescript, standard building with lots of windows and drab, grey walls and Clint wasn’t really a fan. Everyone else wore suits, everyone else looked the part, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, to be like all the rest of them. So he rode his bike and wore his leathers and ‘forgot’ to change. It wasn’t like anyone was going to do anything to him. He was one of Nick Fury’s chosen few. Coulson had once compared them to Dumbledore’s Army, but Clint had never read Harry Potter and he didn’t get the joke.

Clint emerged on the twenty-seventh floor. This floor was different to all the other ones, the place for the ‘special cases’. But he preferred it this way. All the other floors were dark, full of black panels and computer screens and that weird, blue sheen that reflected off everything and gave him a headache. This floor didn’t have any of that. It was open plan, with big windows and natural light and space to breathe. Clint had grown up in draughty rooms and creaky caravans, he didn’t feel right if he couldn’t breathe the fresh air. 

It was still early but Coulson was in his office up the back. In six years Clint had never beat him into the office. It had taken him four years to stop trying. Clint wandered over and knocked on the open door.

“Barton, nice of you to join us.”

“Yeah, what have you got for me?”

Coulson leafed through a stack of files on his desk. “An Elvis lookalike in Vegas, surprise, surprise, insurgency in northern Pakistan, or the annual inspection of the School for Gifted Youngsters.”

Clint strolled in and dropped himself into a chair in front of Coulson’s desk. “What if I don’t feel like travelling?” Clint lifted his feet as though he was about to place them on the desk, but Coulson raised one eyebrow and he reconsidered.

“R&D have been working on some new toys. They want your verdict.”

Clint smiled at him. “Now you’re talking my language.” He glanced out at the empty office space. “Where’s Tash, I thought she’d be in by now.”

Coulson glanced at his watch. “She’s about fourteen hours away from touchdown in Calcutta.”

“Calcutta? But she just got back.”

“Some people are looking into the big guy.”

“So you just sent her out there by herself? Are you crazy?” Clint was leaning forward, staring at him.

Coulson remained impassive and he gave Clint a pitying look. “Agent Romanoff is more than capable of handling this assignment. And she, unlike some people I could mention, is willing to do the things that need to be done.”

“Come on, what does that even mean?”

“It means that I have allowed your relationship with Agent Romanoff to pass without comment, but if you two can’t maintain your professionalism then that might have to change.”

Clint sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “You know, I bet Fury’s sleeping with Agent Hill.”

Coulson looked up at him and though his facial expression didn’t change his eyes narrowed just a fraction. “And I think the Director’s personal life is none of your business.”

“I’m just saying-,”

“I’m going to give you two options, Barton. You can either go to R&D or you can go to Pakistan, either way, when I look up from this piece of paper you will not be in my office, is that understood?”

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Clint muttered, lifting himself up onto his feet and stretching languorously.

Coulson, his eyes fixed deliberately on a file in front of him, nodded slightly. “Didn’t we all?”

-+-

About six hours later Clint’s phone rang. He was sitting at his desk, taping up a cut finger and to answer it was awkward. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Her voice was fuzzy and distant and there was an echo on the line but there was no mistaking it.

“Nat, how’s it going?”

“Boring. Flying is boring.”

“Well, if you’d waited half an hour I could have gone with you.”

“Yeah, but I was mad at you this morning.”

“And now?” Clint had the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he pulled the tape around his finger. The tip of his finger was starting to pulse and he guessed that he might have wrapped the tape too tight.

“Now I’m bored.”

“Well be careful, yeah?”

“You know that I am.”

“How long are you out there?”

“If things go according to plan I should be back Thursday night.”

“Come over.”

“It’ll be pretty late.”

“Still. Come over. I’ll be up.”

“I’m not sure what the beer shopping is like in Calcutta, I might not be able to find you a present.”

There was a sound in the background of the call, a droning noise that Clint recognised. Suddenly he knew why she was calling. He dropped everything else and held the phone closer to his ear. “Just get back here in one piece,” he insisted.

“I’ll see you Thursday.”

Before she had even properly hung up the phone Clint was on his feet and racing towards Coulson’s office. “Did you-?”

“I know.” Coulson didn’t lift his eyes from his computer screen. “I’m tracking it on satellite now.”

“What are they up against?” Clint raced around to stand behind him, gripping the back of Coulson’s chair so tight it made his fingers ache. He was still dripping blood onto the leather but neither of them noticed.

“A couple of Syrian MiG-23s.”

“What, no, those things shouldn’t be able to keep up with us.”

“These are the upgrades. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“Shit.” Clint was staring helplessly at the screen, watching what should have been twenty-year-old obsolete Soviet technology keeping pace with SHIELD’s fastest jet.

Coulson turned to look at him. “Clint, if I had known, I never would have sent them in there alone.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

Coulson stared down at his hands for a moment. “No, I guess not.”

“So what do we do? There has to be something,” Clint insisted.

“There’s nothing that can reach them in time. They’re on their own.”

Clint slapped the back of Coulson’s chair and turned away. This was too painful to watch. He leaned his forearm against the window and thumped his head against it. Natasha would think of something. She always did.

“Who’s with her?” he asked after a beat.

“Hutton and Peters.”

“Could be better.”

“Could be worse, too.”

Clint thumped his head against his arm a couple more times, trying not to think about that. She would make it out. She had to.

“Yes!” Coulson cried out, slapping the desk in victory.

“What?” Clint was at his shoulder once more, peering at the screen. One of the MiGs had exploded into a thousand pieces and even as they watched there came the scream and the burst of light as a missile struck the second one.

“Alright!” Clint cheered and, without really thinking about it, he turned Coulson’s chair and wrapped him in a giant hug.

Their victorious embrace lasted all of three seconds before they suddenly realised what they were doing. They froze and Clint hastily released his arms, stepping back so quickly that he ran into the corner of the desk, hard enough to make his leg go fuzzy for a moment. But he ignored it. Coulson cleared his throat and smoothed down his jacket, suddenly unable to look Clint in the eye.

“I should really get on the phone to the Syrians,” Coulson muttered.

“Right,” Clint stumbled around the desk, making for the door with a limp gesture. “I’ll just be outside.”

“OK, yeah, I’ll talk to you later.”

Clint made it out of the office and pulled the door shut behind him. He slumped into his chair at his desk, afraid to believe that it was over. He stretched out a hand in front of him, not surprised to see it shaking. He balled his hand up into a fist and closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. He knew she would come up with something.


End file.
